


Kyrie Eleison

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark Aethelwulf, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Religious Fanaticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28184523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: Overcome with guilt over his participation in Ragnar's raid on England and a deep sense of unworthiness, Athelstan engages in a penitential fast. He is lost and comes to believe that it is only through suffering that the Lord might find him and bring him back into the fold.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 15
Collections: Darkfics Super-Duper Mega Collection





	Kyrie Eleison

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Darkfics_super_duper_mega_collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Darkfics_super_duper_mega_collection) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Character A ate something (either food or something inedible... or even human meat, get creative) and got obsessed about it and now they can't eat anything else. Character B is watching Character A slowly (or not so slowly) lose their sanity. Character B is an enabler. That is the basic prompt.
> 
> Author's Note: Yes, this is more Athelstan whump. So I like hurting my favorite characters! Is that really so wrong? 
> 
> Historical stuff: The caveat to all of this is I am not a scholar of medieval Christianity or the Eucharist. I do know that most sources indicate that Communion was not a weekly thing in early Christianity. Also, from what I've read, it seems it wasn't uncommon for people to not partake out of fear or reverence. However, the scene at the church in canon seemed to imply that this was a regular occurrence, and it also seemed to imply that the expectation was for every member of the congregation to participate. Were that not the case, it would have been easy enough for Athelstan to simply decline to participate rather than taking the Host and then later discarding it. This was also somewhat inspired by what some scholars describe as "holy anorexia." To my knowledge, this is most written about as it pertains to women and it's mostly been written about in a time period a bit later than Vikings was set, but nevertheless there is historical evidence for a fixation on the Eucharist, and that's sort of the premise driving the fic.
> 
> TL;DR: Yes. Having Communion every week is not entirely historically accurate. However, I'm working with the implication of canon that it was a regular thing, and there is historical evidence for fascination with and extreme fasting related to the Eucharist. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the fic, and I'd love to hear any thoughts you may have!

Athelstan had been so careful. Blue eyes flicked around him, watching the faces of the other parishioners. They’d all been focused so intently on prayer, surely no one’s eyes had been on him, else he would have waited. The Host is heavy on his tongue and he feels a visceral sickness in the depths of his soul that stops him from swallowing. It’s a sin. He knows this. The Body of Christ is sacred and must be consumed. Except, he can’t. The eyes of the Savior stare down at him from the Crucifix at the front of the church—he feels them boring into him and reads the judgement therein.

  
Apostate. Heretic. He hears the Lord whisper in his ear.

_You have denied Me. What right have you to Commune with Me?_

He doesn’t. He can’t. His hands ache and the wounds of the Crucifixion drip red with blood. To all the world his hands appear to have healed, but Athelstan still sees the gaping holes, left to remind him of his unworthiness. He feels the slick of blood and can see it staining the stone floor red. His lips twist in a grimace, a metallic tang coating his tongue as he surreptitiously removes the Bread of Life from his mouth and discards it.

Athelstan is nothing. The stone, and even the rats that may come to retrieve it in the night, are more fit to consume this most Holy gift.

It’s blasphemous. The very act leaves him raw and spent, but it is right. Or, at least it is more right than it would have been to swallow. Besides, no one had seen, and even if they had, he is sure the congregation can’t possibly hate him any more than they already do.

His skin crawls and his stomach writhes. He is barely able to make himself remain until the end of Mass. The moment the final benediction is uttered, he stands and hobbles out the door, ignoring the pain in his feet in his desperate search for relief. It doesn’t come outside the church. The wooden eyes may no longer stare down from the Cross, but he still feels the weight of God’s anger upon him. There is no escape. The eyes of the Lord see all.

His throat constricts and his breath grows shallow.

However, it isn’t until he is back in his chambers in the king’s villa that he succumbs to tears. Trembling, he sinks to his knees and his entire body heaves with the force of harsh and broken sobs. He cries out to the Lord and pleads for mercy, but it is not the Lord who answers.

There is no knock at the door. At first, he’s unaware that his privacy has been intruded upon. At least, he is until he hears a voice sneer, “Apostate.”

Still, Athelstan doesn’t look up. Whoever has come, he has nothing to say to him. He turns his head away and draws in a shuddering breath. He had hoped to avoid allowing the Saxons to see his weakness laid bare, but if they must, then so be it. Perhaps God has sent the intruder to further punish the sinner.

The man doesn’t leave. Instead, he crouches before Athelstan, rough hand taking hold of his chin, forcing him to look into unkind gray eyes. He recognizes this man. Prince Aethelwulf—King Ecbert’s son.

Athelstan says nothing. Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he can.

With his free hand, Aethelwulf holds up the Host Athelstan had discarded in the church. “It must be eaten.”

Unable to bear the sight of his transgression thrust before him, Athelstan closes his eyes. “I can’t,” he gasps. The prince knows what he is—knows that his father only deigned to spare Athelstan’s life for his own amusement, and that he should have perished upon the Cross. Surely, then, he must know why he can’t take the Body of Christ into his soul. The Lord would not wish it.

Bruising fingers dig into his jaw. He twists his head, but the prince’s grip is firm and he isn’t strong enough to pull away. He tries to protest further, but his attacker sees an opportunity. He forces the Host upon Athelstan’s tongue and clamps a hand over his mouth. “I don’t care what allowances my father makes for you. You _will not_ disrespect my Lord.”

Although Athelstan’s fingers curl around the prince’s wrist, trying to pry his hands away, his grip is weak and the wounds in his palms ache. No matter how he thrashes, he cannot escape. He must swallow. He coughs and chokes as he feels it stick to the back of his throat. Aethelwulf will not relent until he’s certain Athelstan has forced it down. Once satisfied, he releases his captive with a shove.

The disgraced monk presses his palms against the floor, bracing himself as he pants with the exertion of his struggles. He feels sick.

“Repent,” the prince commands. “And pray that you may one day be made worthy of the gift you have been given.” He stands to leave.

Alone again, Athelstan tries without success to make himself vomit. He wraps his arms around himself. “ _Kyrie eleison,_ ” he breathes. He repeats it over and over and over again as his tears drip to the floor. He doesn’t know how long he prays, or even if it really counts as prayer. By the end, he’s not sure he’s fully cognizant of what he’s saying anymore.

He is too far gone in his despair.

For days, Athelstan does not leave his chambers. He fasts and he prays. His knees are sore and bruised from kneeling and hunger gnaws at his stomach, but he tries to ignore it. Penance isn’t meant to be pleasant, and the pain he feels now pales in comparison to the pain he’d known on the cross—to the pain Christ Himself had felt upon His own Cross as he died for the sins of humanity.

For Athelstan’s sins.

But the king has grown weary of his absence and summons Athelstan to dine with him.

He has no choice but to go—although he wears no tether, he is fully aware he belongs to the king. He has never been free before, and he knows captivity well enough to recognize it for what it is, no matter how gilded the cage.

He’d been trying to walk without his cane, but tonight he knows he can’t. His hands struggle to maintain their grip as he leans upon it for support while hobbling to meet King Ecbert. Aethelwulf is there as well, joined by his wife, Judith. Athelstan can’t bring himself to meet any of their eyes as he takes his seat.

The prince’s eyes bore into him. As hungry as he is, his stomach is so twisted up into knots that even were he tempted to, he wouldn’t have been able to eat.

King Ecbert doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort, instead asking, “Is dinner not to your liking?”

Athelstan musters a polite smile. “My lord is most generous, but I’m afraid I am fasting and cannot partake. But, I am most grateful for the company this evening, and a little temptation is always good for the soul, is it not?”

The king raises his cup as if in a toast. “Your piety is truly an inspiration to us all!”

There is no bite of sarcasm in his words. King Ecbert is… perhaps not _kinder_ than his son, exactly. He is absolutely dangerous in his own right and Athelstan knows he must tread carefully. But, he has a lighter touch. He dotes on Athelstan and pretends to see him as a holy man, more akin to the monk he had once been than the Pagan he’d been living as. However, the way Ecbert is constantly peppering him with questions about the heathens reveals him for what he truly is—the king’s pet Pagan, kept around only to feed his fascination. The shroud of holiness is thrust upon him merely as a façade to make the whole thing seem more acceptable.

Athelstan ducks his head in what could be taken as bashful modesty, befitting a man of Christ. It isn’t. He is simply overcome with shame.

He answers the king’s questions about the gods and rituals of the Northmen as best as he is able. He must. There is no choice. But where King Ecbert’s eyes are bright with interest and delight, Aethelwulf’s are like flint. The burn of the prince’s judgement is stifling and painful, as if the righteous fury of the Lord is reflected through that steely gaze.

The meal drags on for far too long. The walls seem to be closing in around him and his heart races. All around him are either oblivious or indifferent to his discomfort as his eyes dart around the room, as if searching for some invisible threat. Were he not so dependent upon his cane, he would have sprang up from his seat the moment he is given leave to return to his chambers. He can’t leave fast enough.

He feels dirty, the sinfulness of his soul clinging to him as if a thick layer of grime that no amount of scrubbing can cleanse.

Athelstan is once again on his knees, pleading for redemption. He has already suffered much. Has it truly not been enough? Fine, then. He will continue his fast, subsisting on prayer and the Host for nourishment. Perhaps if he takes in nothing but the Body of Christ, it might purge him of whatever evil the Lord sees within him and make Athelstan once again pleasing in His sight.

_Christe eleison, Christe eleison, Christe eleison_

The words repeat over and over and over again, the cadence growing ever more frenzied with each new utterance. He stops only when exhaustion claims him and he slumps forward to sleep on the cold floor.

By Sunday his face has become gaunt. His skin is pale and the accumulation of sleepless nights is visible in the dark circles beneath his eyes. He is losing weight, but Athelstan has always the kind of loose-fitting clothing that would make such a thing less obvious. Not that it matters. Few look at him long enough to be able to notice, and even if they did, none would care.

The cane, however, draws attention. Athelstan is quickly reminded of why he had been so determined to walk without it.

Making his way slowly to the church, he keeps his head down, and so he doesn’t see the culprit. He just lurches and falls forward as a foot kicks the polished wood away from him. He throws out an arm to break his fall, gasping in pain as bruised knees and scarred palms come into contact with the ground. He reaches for the cane to lean on so he can right himself, but the same boot sends it sliding further away.

Athelstan doesn’t bother to lift his eyes to see the face of his tormentor, nor does he respond to the derisive scoff as the man finally walks off.

He has lived among the Vikings and come to England with them to raid. His hands are forever stained by the blood of Christian men. He doesn’t blame the Saxons for their hatred.

Athelstan picks himself up and limps to church, staying in the back, where his presence will be less obtrusive and fewer will be required to suffer themselves to look upon him.

His eyes remain downcast—he cannot bring himself to look upon the Cross.

At Communion, the host once again sits heavy on Athelstan’s tongue. His entire being recoils against the notion that something so precious should be wasted on him. This time, however, he forces himself to swallow, and then he whispers a hushed prayer. “I have strayed Lord. Far. Too far, perhaps, to find my way back. But I want to try. Please. I beg You, guide me back into the fold. Allow me once more to be Your servant. Without You, I can never again be whole.”

There is no answer.

Finally, plaintive eyes turn to the Heavens searching for something—anything—that might give him hope.

He sees nothing save the stone ceiling. God has turned away.

Athelstan still doesn’t eat. He drinks, but not a bite of food passes his lips. The sharp pangs of hunger have given way to a constant gnawing that Athelstan has managed to grow accustomed to enough to mostly ignore, or at least temporarily stave off by drinking.

A fog has settled in his head that makes it near impossible to focus on anything. That’s harder to forget about. He tries to read the gospel, but finds himself squinting in an effort to force himself to pay better attention. He’s read the same verse at least four times already and still hasn’t absorbed it. Is this the Lord’s doing? Is Christ condemning him once again, this time by denying him access to God’s Word?

He closes the book and sets it aside.

“ _Kyrie eleison, kyrie eleison…”_

Even the plea for mercy that has become a constant in his life feels muddled.

On some level, Athelstan knows a meal would help. If he would just break his fast he would once again be able to think and perhaps his head might stop pounding quite so much. Except he can’t. He is not yet forgiven and he can’t succumb to temptation. Penance is not meant to be easy.

Except, much as he wants to lay his life down at Christ’s feet, his life is not his own to give.

Ecbert summons him again, this time to his private library. Athelstan hasn’t made much progress on transcribing the texts of late. They discuss Antiquity but he can’t seem to muster his usual acuity and he comes off rather more inarticulate than Ecbert must expect. The king’s eyes rake over him. He’d been lean to begin with, so the weight he’s lost seems more pronounced.

“Do you still fast?”

“Yes, my lord.” He gives as much of a smile as he can manage and explains, “There is still much spiritual work to be done.”

Ecbert frowns. “Surely, though, you must allow yourself something?”

“Christ will sustain me.”

“You’ll join me for dinner,” his king decides. “At the very least, take some broth. As your king, I simply must insist.”

There is no point in arguing. Athelstan simply bows his head. “If that is your wish, then of course I will oblige.” His tone is strained, but if Ecbert notices, he doesn’t care.

The king claps him on the shoulder. “It’s settled, then.”

At the very least, he honors Athelstan’s wishes enough to see he’s served something simple. He finds before him a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, in contrast to much more kingly fare upon the table. Still, he can’t help but think it seems far too much. And, too, he feels the weight of Aethelwulf’s stare. The king and the prince both watch, each issuing their own unspoken command. One has issued a pardon and welcome him into the fold, the other looks on in condemnation It’s the latter who sees Athelstan for what he truly is.

He cannot obey both, and so he must obey the king.

Athelstan eats.

The humble meal is warm and flavorful, but he does not enjoy it. It sits heavily in his stomach and the bread is as ash on his tongue. Relief from the hunger that has been his companion for more than a week is not truly a relief at all.

As soon as he has satisfied his obligation of polite conversation, he flees outside, where he sinks to his knees and retches, bringing up everything he’s consumed. He remains there, sitting in the dirt, panting. Athelstan is exhausted. He contemplates whether he wouldn’t be better off spending the night outdoors rather than making the painful walk to his quarters, but he makes a half-hearted reach for his cane. As he does, he sees a cloven hoof.

A creature of shadows stands above him, silhouette an unholy hybrid of human and goat. Blazing eyes burn him to the depth of his soul.

_You’ve broken your penitential fast._

“No,” he gasps.

_Is His flesh not enough?_

“I… I did only as I was commanded. I—”

_It would sustain you, if He wished it. But He has abandoned you._

“Please!”

_You will burn, apostate._

He clutches his head and shuts his eyes, trying to block out the demon’s voice. He raises frantic repetitions of, “ _Christe eleison_ ” to a God who will not deign to listen. He looks a madman, muttering and cowering away from nothing. His voice raises, painful and keening, calling out to no one and his breaths come in shallow and irregular bursts that leave him as dizzy and starved for air as he had felt when hoisted up upon the cross. Is he going to die? He thinks he must, and the demon has come to drag his soul down to Hell.

A pair of strong arms lift him from the ground. He struggles feebly in their grasp, sure it must be the devil who has hold of him. Except the cane is thrust unto his hands, and he hears a familiar voice utter, “Pagan.” There is derision in his tone, but it’s less biting than when the prince refers to him as _apostate_.

“Your highness,” he breathes.

Lips twist into a sneer. Beneath it, there might be something akin to pity, but Athelstan is too far-gone in his self-loathing to see it. “Come. It would displease my father to find you out here.” He allows Athelstan to lean on him and walks slowly as he guides the former monk to his quarters. “And I’d think you’d not be so eager to catch your death.” He sees Athelstan into his bed, pressing, “Surely, you don’t imagine yourself redeemed so easily?”

“No.” The Lord still does not want him; this much, he knows. “Perhaps I never will be.”

“Perhaps.” Aethelwulf regards Athelstan for a moment. “I would not be so arrogant as to claim to know the mind of the Lord,” he says, not entirely unkindly. “But, this I do know. None who stray can find their way back save through contrition and penance.”

Having done his duty to his father’s pet and said all he feels is required, Aethelwulf leaves Athelstan alone with his own thoughts.

His sleep is troubled with the unyielding burn of hellfire and stench of sulfur.

Still, he sleeps. When he wakes, he is still lethargic. He gets to his knees, but finds it is growing harder and harder for him to pray. Athelstan has always been something of a recluse, preferring the company of books and quiet to that of any of the Saxons and now he has withdrawn even further. He doesn’t leave his chambers for much anything anymore. The king asks after him, but he simply says that feels unwell—it’s close enough to the truth—and requests to be left to rest in seclusion, lest whatever has gripped him spreads to his lord.

That is a lie. One more sin to add to the list. But surely the Lord will understand—if he said anything else, he would have been ordered to break his fast once again. As it is, King Ecbert has meals sent to him, expecting he will eat to regain his strength. But in the absence of anyone watching, the window proves a convenient means by which to dispose of the unwanted offerings.

He finds it difficult to kneel in prayer. His knees are boney and he has spent so much time upon them that the bruising never manages to heal. Athelstan embraces the pain as an addition to his penance, serving as a reminder of his purpose. Having something physical to help call his mind back into focus stops him from drifting away so often.

Perhaps the ache is a gift from the Lord, calling him to prayer and revealing that his soul may yet be saved.

Bells call the faithful to worship and Athelstan is so, very tired. He is able to attend unmolested by the congregation—perhaps he looks frail enough that they have decided that there is no longer any sport in antagonizing him. Whatever the reason, he is grateful.

He isn’t so frightened this time. Whether it is a sign of the evil purging itself from his soul or simply because he is too tired for fear he cannot say, but he hopes it is the former. He dares to look upon the Cross, searching desperately for a sign that the Lord might look upon him again. “Please, Lord,” he begs. “Cleanse my soul and allow me to Commune with You. Grant that by the power of the sacrament, I might be made whole.”

The wine in the Cup of Life takes on a darker hue. He sees it not as wine at all, but rather thick and crimson as freshly spilled blood. He stares, transfixed, and his palms bleed again. Yet the eyes that stare down at him from the Crucifix feel different than they had weeks ago. They are stern, yes, but not quite so hateful.

“ _Eleison._ ”

The plea is on his lips as he receives the Host. He craves it as a man lost in the desert craves water. “Come into me, Lord, and make of me what You will.” It does not inspire in him the same guilty revulsion, but rather a most fervent desperation. He doesn’t understand the visions he has been sent, but he dares to have hope. He is not yet worthy, but perhaps through his suffering he may yet come to be.

_Eleison, eleison, eleison._

It takes him time to gather himself and muster the energy to leave. However, when he does he is bolstered by something he has not felt in far too long. Athelstan dares to allow himself something that feels suspiciously like hope.

His spirit bolstered, he takes up his work on transcribing the king’s library with renewed vigor. He knows that King Ecbert will not allow him to hide forever, and yet he cannot break his fast. So he must pretend it does not affect him so very much. He wears extra layers of clothing to disguise how thin he has become, although the evidence is there in his face. It helps, he finds, to keep a needle hidden in his sleeve. Should he find his mind wandering in the midst of a conversation, he twists his wrist to prick himself and the pain calls him back to the present.

Athelstan is at the behest of two masters—one of earth and one Divine. One calls Athelstan to tend to his own needs, as he has need of his sharp mind, and yet the other demands Athelstan forsake himself entirely. Trying to walk the thin line that will satisfy both of their demands is utterly exhausting. And yet he must, else he will fall into the abyss and be lost.

If fear of the Lord were not enough to keep him on his course, then the steely gaze of the prince, which he finds frequently following him serves as yet another reminder of the guilt that still clings to him. Its rot had been working its way through him for years and has left little within him untouched. He suspects there is little enough of him worth saving that he must be broken entirely before the last vestiges of goodness can be salvaged and he may be remade in an image more pleasing to the Lord.

Every ache is as a holy flame, burning away layers of taint.

And yet he can only stave off the king’s concern for so long. It’s when Athelstan stumbles and can’t seem to find his balance without bracing against a wall that he intervenes. He wraps one arm around Athelstan’s shoulders and places his other hand on his chest to support him. “Come with me.” The king’s frown deepens as he feels the padding of the numerous layers Athelstan wears and realizes just how light he has become.

“Please, my lord. It is just momentary weakness. It will pass.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Of course not, my lord.”

“I understand that you are a holy man, and I do admire your devotion, but you must realize I simply cannot allow this to continue.” He sits Athelstan down at a table and looks him in the eye. “Nor do I believe that this is God’s will.” He walks away, leaving Athelstan feeling rather like a scolded child. King Ecbert doesn’t seem at all concerned that Athelstan will try to leave while he is unsupervised. Realistically, he’d not get far before his king returned, and, too, living within the king’s villa makes him an easy man to find.

He lifts his eyes to the Heavens.

_Kyrie Eleison_

He offers a preemptive prayer for pardon for what he is about to do. His stomach twists and writhes when the king returns with a bowl of soup and bread. A lump rises in the back of his throat and it’s all he can do not to gag at the sight of it. “My lord, I can’t.” It’s soft and plaintive, and as he speaks he looks away, brow creased in consternation.

“Athelstan, you must. You cannot survive on faith alone—no man can. And God does not want you to die.”

At this, the former monk can’t help but utter a quiet scoff.

“God saw me crucified,” he points out, bitter words acrid on his tongue.

“He did,” Ecbert agrees. “But you know our customs, so tell me. How often is a man put to death upon a cross?”

“It is almost unheard of, my lord.” At least, Athelstan had never heard of anyone executed in such a manner. What he doesn’t understand, however, is what Ecbert’s point will be. Surely this only confirms that he has fallen outside of the love of the Lord and was deemed worthy only of a uniquely painful death. So, then, God must not object to his current weakness.

“It is. By all estimates, you were on your cross for close to an hour before I arrived, and you had been apprehended quite a bit earlier. But, of course, a crucifixion takes time.” He reaches across the table and cups Athelstan’s cheek, guiding him to meet his eyes. “Tell me. Had any other death been chosen for you, what are the chances you would not have been either dead or too far gone to save by the time I reached the hill? Yes, Athelstan. God did put you on that cross. But, He did so to deliver you, else there would not have been time.”

“Perhaps, my lord.” Athelstan wants to point out that perhaps he _was_ meant to die, but the freewill with which God had gifted man prevented it. Thrice now, he ought to have died. First at Lindisfarne, with the rest of his brothers. Then, at least, he’d have died a monk and a good Christian. And then he ought to have died at Uppsala and he would have, had he been deemed a worthy sacrifice. Finally, here in Wessex. Perhaps each time, his survival had been a subversion of God’s will.

Which is easier to believe? And which is more blasphemous? Is it that men want him dead and God continues to deliver him? Or is it God who continually puts his life in danger, only for stubborn men to stand in His path? He doesn’t know, but he is too tired to argue with the king.

Instead, he takes up the spoon and obeys the unspoken command. Athelstan tastes nothing. It’s repulsive to him, but king’s eyes do not leave him until he has managed to force himself to finish. He feels sick and cannot say whether it is from the soup or simply the shame.

_Eleison!_

“You’ll dine with me each evening. I won’t hear any arguments.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He could have made it back to his chambers himself, but the king insists on walking with him. Their conversation on the way is cursory at best—Athelstan finds he just doesn’t have much to say. Fortunately, Ecbert seems not to mind too much. He doesn’t stop when they reach the door, instead walking Athelstan right over to his bed. “You need rest. Take care of yourself, Athelstan. Your life is far too precious to throw it away.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

As the king leaves the shadow of the cross looms, dark and severe in the flickering light of candles.

_Do you deny Me?_

“No!”

_You have turned away_

“I haven’t! Please! My life is yours.”

_Empty words._

Athelstan stumbles from his bed, sinks to his knees, and retches. He weeps as his body purges itself of all he’d consumed. He can tolerate nothing save the sacred Host.

The nights that follow are much the same. Every night, he heats with King Ecbert and his family, and every night he is sick. Every night, he hears the voice of the Lord chastise him for breaking his fast.

But, while Christ rebukes him, Satan’s demon has not come to him again. At least, Athelstan doesn’t think so. Shadows seem to lurk at the edges of his vision, but they don’t take any shape that he can discern. Neither do they speak condemnations. They simply exist, and so he is able to ignore them.

Sunday, the bells once again call the faithful to worship.

The walk to church has become a slow and painful pilgrimage.

His chest heaves and he sinks down gracelessly when he enters. He is already exhausted, and yet he is euphoric. Physical weakness will become spiritual strength. “I am here, Lord, and I am Yours.”

He finds he must prick himself with his needle often to keep himself from drifting. Mass is a struggle. The image of Christ seems to follow him, passing judgement on his efforts. He is trying so, very hard—surely the Lord must see that? As Christ had once suffered upon the Cross, Athelstan wants to suffer in the name of his Lord. He belongs to God, to be broken or healed as He sees fit. He is prepared to surrender himself entirely to the mercy of the King of Kings.

He takes in the Bread of Life and finds this time it feels less of a burden.

As Mass comes to an end and he makes to leave, he finds he cannot stand. He lifts his eyes and sees a shadow before him, but whether it be angel or demon he cannot say. For a moment, he stares, transfixed as he tries to parse what he’s seeing, and then he slumps forward, collapsing onto the stone floor of the church.

_Christe Eleison_


End file.
